Fallout
by Meridian1
Summary: In any war, there are casualties. This is the story of the war for Gotham, the heroes who would save it, the villains who would jeopardize it, and the people caught in between. postBatman Begins fiction
1. Freedom of the Press

Title: Fallout  
Author: Meridian  
Rating: R (language, sexual references)  
Summary: In any war, there are casualties. This is the story of the war for Gotham, the heroes who would save it, the villains who would jeopardize it, and the people caught in between.

**Author's Note: With a new iteration of the Batman, there's so much room to play. Inspired by _Batman Begins_, I borrow elements heavily from _Batman: The Animated Series_. Most characters in this work are taken from what I know of that version of Batman, translated and adapted into the darker world of_ Batman Begins_. Enjoy.**

* * *

_The Ballot and the Bat  
_By Summer Gleason 

At his re-election party four weeks ago, Mayor Hamilton Hill clapped Police Commissioner Arlen Loeb on the shoulder and posed for all the right photos as they pledged, together, to heal our wounded city. Loeb stood for pictures with decorated cops and ordinary patrolmen the next day, and Hill dined with the richest men in Gotham to see that contributions to his campaign flowed freely. A few cried foul at Hill's use of the recent terrorist attack to sway voters, but most understood that any politician incapable of turning tragedy to his advantage never lasted long in the dark city.

We're now two weeks from the election, and neither Hill nor his opponent can claim a sizeable lead. The threat of terrorism preys heavily on voters' minds, and each candidate jockeys daily for the mayor's mansion by declaring new and improved means by which they would keep the people safe. Hill boasts of his sizeable donations and federal funds already amassed on behalf of the citizenry; his opponent, Temple Fugate, focuses on how he would implement changes with that money, his long history in civil service a testament to his ability to micro-manage and streamline for maximum efficiency.

What matters most to your average voter, however, is that neither has the Batman's endorsement. Every day leading up to the election with no clear pronouncement from Gotham's elusive hero rattles nerves and sparks spontaneous discussions of policy among the rank and file. There have been reports of brawls over the question of which candidate enjoys the Batman's loyalty. Lieutenant James Gordon, suspected ally of the Batman, isn't giving us any hints, but maybe that's not the point. What matters is that the man controlling the election is, as ever, both known and unknown.

Not long ago, Gotham looked to bosses like Carmine Falcone or Carl Grissom to know which flunky to elect - Hill's predecessor stepped down because just such an arrangement was more publicly acknowledged than is acceptable even in this city. In times past, everyone knew the man behind the public's man, but his power to elect candidates was never provable.

Not so this year. This year, Gothamites see the searchlight in the sky as a reminder of who controls the public opinion. It is only his real identity that remains as much a mystery as his choice for mayor. One can only imagine the Batman stepping into the voting booth this November because, while the man behind the mask will do just such a thing (one would hope, seeing as he is so civic-minded), the man himself never allows his politics to show. Or to change his routine.

Remind you of anyone...or anything? This city has seen a lot, especially of late, and yet she stays strong, rises to the challenges, resilient beyond measure. It is also a stubborn city, a sometimes cruel and pitiless one. The recent decision to raze most of the Narrows, including the now ineffectual Arkham Asylum, stands out as one of the most bizarre points of concurrence between our two candidates for mayor. And Gotham's dark savior does nothing to save the poor who will be displaced as Wayne Enterprises moves in to claim the real estate. It's politics as usual, even when the boss wears a cape.

Perhaps we can all release the breaths we've been holding and be bold, declare ourselves, for once, indifferent to the choice that the man behind the scenes is making, and vote according to our belief. Hope is fresh in Gotham again, and for that we owe our elected officials, the legion of hard-working policemen, and, of course, the Batman due thanks. But let your conscience guide you to the booth this year. No night flyer will pull that lever for you. The fate of our city lies in the booth. As it should be. Voter intimidation this year has no excuse, so don't be a coward: vote your conscience. And please, leave the tights at home.

* * *

"That's a bit harsh, isn't it, Summer?" 

Summer Gleason pushed her glasses up her nose, dropping the paper in front of her back to her desk. She never wore them to the office much, fashionable frames not withstanding. TV anchors needed to be accessible as much as they needed to be pretty faces; a bespectacled television journalist put the viewer in a subservient, ignorant position, and she hadn't climbed her way to being Gotham's favorite nightly news anchor by treating her viewers like putzes.

"This is print media, Jason," Summer caught the copy of the Gotham Gazette that he threw to her. "No one will even read it that carefully. I said what I needed to say and said it without leaving grounds for a libel suit with either Hill or Fugate. And," she smiled, biting on the end of her pen, "both of them will still have to smile and be nice when they give interviews to me."

"You sure they'll still do that?"

"They wouldn't dare not to. Now, scram." Jason rabbitted when she barked; aside from the vee-pees, no one bossed the staff around quite like her, a fact of which she was quite proud. Joe Walsh, the assistant editor, side-stepped around Jason and into her office, stooping to retrieve her paper.

"Seems we're famous for more than our Clariol hair-color, Summer."

She flipped him off, tapping her perfect nails on her desk as she waited for him to close the door. He took his time about it, closing it gently so as not to attract door-slamming attention from the secretaries and interns bustling about outside. It was why she tolerated his snide remarks and other assorted bullshit: he could read her and respected her despite the tantrums.

"You look fit to kill, Gleason. What's gotten up your skirt now?"

"This," she banged her fist down on the desk, wrinkling her byline, nearly tearing the newsprint. Scowling, she flicked out her handkerchief to wipe off the schmutz. "This piece of garbage editorial. What was I thinking, Joe?"

"You come off pretty intelligent. Lotta people who're gonna be surprised about that, let me tell you."

"I come off like all the other talking-head blowhards who don't have a clue." She sighed, anger spent and dwindling down into a whine. "I want the Batman, Joe. I wanted to break that story."

"It's been broken a few weeks now, Summer."

"It hasn't been _anything_!" She grabbed the paper and threw it up in the air. "No one has a picture of the guy. He's on the rooftops now for how long? How many people saw him after that mess with the Narrows and _no one_ has a single fucking picture?"

"It's a question of predictability, Summer. He's not posing, and unless you plan on going undercover as a mob moll, how the hell do you plan on being there when crime provokes this loony?"

"Undercover," Summer spat out the word with contempt. "Embedded, Joe. Reporters can be embedded. We're not the goddamned police." She chewed on this thought a moment. "What about Gordon? I hear he's comfy with the Bat."

"Yeah, Commissioner Loeb tried to fire him for it, too."

"And Mayor Hill got him promoted instead," Summer nodded. Gotham had just been attacked by terrorists, but less than a month later things were back to normal, the gossip mill abuzz about the sissy slap-fight and jurisdictional posturing between the mayor and his commissioner over the Batman. It made her want the story even more. Any guy who could break up the boys' club mentality between Loeb and Hill had to be something amazing.

"You know half the city's sat on Gordon's little lamp and we still have no photos."

"I _know_, Joe. I listen to you tell me 'we still don't have it yet, Summer' every fucking day." She wasn't entirely sure how that worked, either. You sit a guy in front of Lt. Gordon's overgrown flashlight and you have him _stay_ there for a couple of days, and yet he _still_ misses the Batman. What. The. Fuck?

"He's slippery, this bat-guy."

"No shit," Summer rolled her eyes. "The print boys are going to get the picture soon, though. And the rest of us talkies are gonna be left holding our dicks to the fan trying to get him to talk to us."

"Well, there's one thing you can be glad of, Summer."

Casting a quick glance at Heaven in prayer, she looked at her editor. "What's that, Joe?"

"You don't _have_ a dick."

"Fuck you, too."

"Language," he chided, wagging his finger at her. "You better get that out of your system before you go on tonight. Last time we had a slip-up, the FCC fined us more than even _you_ are worth."

"I'm gonna be worth a shitload more soon, Joe."

Joe folded his arms, his posture tolerant if not credulous. That was another reason she liked him; he would go along with her bullshit because he knew, nine times out of ten, it eventually led somewhere real. Her nose was that good, so the network gave her enough slack to find the story. That she might hang herself with that length never fussed Joe any.

"Why are you going to be worth more, Summer?"

"I'm going to get an interview with Batman." Joe's eyebrows went up a notch, but he held his tongue. "No more editorials. No more waste-of-space filler for the clueless crowd. I'm going to get on camera and I'm going on with Batman if I have to drag him out of his hole by his fruity little cape."

"If anyone can do it," Joe slapped his thighs, rising to stand, "it's you."

"Damn right."

"Don't let anyone catch you slacking on the rest of your job, though." His reproach stung; as professional as she was, it had happened before and there would be severe consequences if it happened again. "You want to track down the Bat? You do it on your time. You be _here_ to read the empty, waste-of-space news when they want you, and you can do anything you want with your down time."

Joe walked to the door, opened it, paused, a sinner's grin on his face. "Nice editorial, by the way."

She threw her shoe at the door just as it closed.


	2. Two Steps Back

Bruce Wayne read Summer Gleason's article over brunch. It was the earliest he'd been up in a month. Alfred feigned a heart attack upon seeing his ward in the kitchen at eleven a.m., making his own toast and coffee, no less.

"And what has fascinated you so, sir, that you're up at a hour previously unthinkable?"

"Just reading the paper," he said with a sly grin, sliding it along for Alfred to read. Usually, Alfred worked his meticulously neat way through the paper backwards and forwards before Bruce was conscious enough to ask for it. He was enjoying the reversal, getting to inform Alfred of things. Alfred took out his glasses and skimmed the article.

"Not welcome already, I see."

"She thinks I'm controlling the election."

"Well, to be fair, sir, you did make a sizeable donation to Mayor Hill's re-election fund."

"Did I?" Bruce munched his toast, smiling in that helpless, impish way he knew Alfred hated. It was as close to a dumb-blonde routine as a two-hundred-twenty-pound, six-foot-two ninja could pull off, and it worked damn well. "When did I do that?"

"I took it upon myself to see that the check was delivered."

Were it not for his absolute trustworthiness, Alfred would be a terrific crook. In the short time since his return to Gotham, Bruce had discovered that his butler faked his messy scrawl with more authenticity than he himself managed at times.

"Mayor Hill's not a bad person, sir. He's done wonders for the schools at the least."

"But he is the one who let Gotham slide over the years." He baited Alfred, pleased to see the old English temper and self-righteousness flare up.

"Not so, sir. That would be his predecessor. What Hill inherited was already half-way gone. He's done rather well, considering."

"Relax, Alfred. I agree." He wasn't as ignorant of politics as he pretended to be. As Batman, he couldn't afford to allow the corrupt to maintain or accrue more power any more than he could overlook a mugging on his patrols. Of the two candidates for mayor, he preferenced Hill to Fugate. Wayne Enterprises certainly relied on men like Fugate, but a fastidious know-it-all who adhered to letter rather than spirit of the law wasn't the champion of justice he'd want as mayor. Fugate was also a veritable unknown, and while he no longer feared the unknown, he had sense enough not to trust it either.

"As you're awake so much earlier than anticipated, Master Wayne, perhaps you might visit the construction site this morning?"

"That sounds like a plan," he nodded, finishing his coffee.

Wayne Manor's reconstruction was, despite his initial concerns and Alfred's ulcers over it, a surpassingly uneventful affair. The blueprints for the original were still on file with the city, but most of the old manor's dirtier secrets weren't in any of the schematics. The elevator shaft was cemented over without much fanfare or investigation, lost amidst a plethora of extravagant, eccentric requests that Bruce Wayne and his formidable bank account could inflict upon any grateful contractor. Alfred and he would work out how best to re-open that entrance to the caves later. If his great-great grandfather had managed back in the 1800s, he could certainly do, too. Unless the bats themselves acted up, there was nothing left to betray Batman's presence.

For now, he had the presidential suite on the top floor of Gotham Arms Hotel, a purchase made on a whimsy that had turned out to be most useful. Bruce's high living made being Batman that much easier; he had a room safe large enough to store his suit and accouterments. He watched as Alfred cleared away the hotel dishes, washing them and setting them aside to dry. None of the hotel staff visited the suite since his taking up residence in it, another quirk dismissed with shaking heads and low mutterings about 'those wacky billionaires.' Alfred would never have tolerated another cleaning up after him anyway.

"Before I forget, sir," Alfred toweled off his hands and retrieved a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. "Miss Dawes called for you this morning. I didn't believe you were up yet."

He took the note, unfolded it and read off the brief summary of Rachel's call. She wanted to do dinner, his choice of location, to celebrate. Her request that he call her back was underscored by Alfred so it became an admonition; he hadn't called her in nearly two weeks. He'd been busy, but that didn't stop either of the two people he cared most about in the world from berating him for his negligence.

Looking up from the note, he found Alfred already extending his mobile phone, clicking the speed-dial to Rachel's office. Frowning and attempting to appear put-upon, he took it and raised the phone to his ear.

"Rachel Dawes."

"Good morning."

"Bruce?"

"Sometimes," he affirmed, pleased to hear her laugh at this. Very little about his divided lifestyle amused Rachel.

"It's good to hear from you. I usually get Alfred."

"So he's been reminding me. How are things?"

Rachel sighed, her breath rushing over the connection like a hurricane wind. "Not great. I'd prefer to talk later, if you're free."

"I always have time for you."

Rachel snorted. "Just not lately."

"No, but I'm getting better." He changed subjects, not really interested in pouring over his nightlife in vague double-speak. "Where and when would you like to have dinner?"

"I'm going to be in late tonight. Eight, maybe? I might be late no matter what time I tell you."

"Then I'll make it easy on you. Tell me a time, and I'll show up at your office and throw you over my shoulder and pull you out kicking and screaming so no one thinks you're slacking off."

Rachel chuckled again. "And you could, too."

"Would, Rachel."

"Right." He heard her shuffling papers. "Eight. Don't come up and get me, I'll find a way to get out and meet you. If you came up here, the entire office would implode."

"What do you mean?"

"We've taken on more interns to meet demand since I moved up." When her boss died, Mayor Hill had promoted Rachel to his position. The jump from assistant district attorney to just plain district attorney oughtn't to have been a huge one, but the DA's office was as busy as he was these days.

"What's that got to do with me?"

"They're mostly _female_ interns."

"I'm flattered."

"Sure you are. But, seeing as I need my staff to focus, especially now, I'd prefer it if you didn't waltz in and pull a Prince Charming on me."

"I don't think you have to worry about me on that score." He tried not to sound bitter about it; it wasn't fair to her.

"I know that. _They_ don't."

"I'll wait outside then. In the car. Promise."

"Good." He heard her jog her papers some more, an unspoken declaration that the conversation was coming to a close. "Say hi to Alfred for me. Is he making you get out of bed before sunset these days?"

"I'm awake by my own doing. I had a good night."

There was a long pause where he listened to her breathe and guessed at what objection or recrimination she would make. Instead, all she said was, "Glad to hear it. I can't wait to see the paperwork."

He hadn't guessed that one. Maybe she didn't mind Batman so much after all.

"We can not-talk about it some more at dinner."

"Oh no," Rachel said quickly, "no you don't. We're not talking about you tonight. Tonight is all about me."

"Sure," he said, relieved. "Alfred mentioned we were celebrating."

"We are."

"What's the occasion?"

"I'm getting fired."

"_What_?"

Alfred folded the newspaper in a hurry, casting a worried glance over at him. He tilted the phone away from his face.

"She says she's being _fired_?"

This visibly startled Alfred. "What's that, sir?" British obstinacy returned after a moment, and he disappeared behind his paper again, grumbling, "rubbish."

"It's a long story, Bruce, and I've got a lot of work to do. I'll fill you in later."

"You'd better." His mouth hurt, he was frowning so hard. Unquestionably wrong, violent urges sprang up and were slapped back down again. _No Prince Charming, remember?_ He couldn't be her white knight, but he could be her friend. "I'm taking you out somewhere horribly expensive and getting you drunk."

"No thanks," Rachel sighed again. "I have a lot to finish up here and I'm going to need my brain. You are under orders to take me out somewhere moderately expensive and get me tipsy."

"Done."

"See you at eight." She hung up.

Alfred peeked around the paper. "Is everything all right, sir?"

"No." But he didn't want to fantasize about the million and one things wrong with a day that had started out so promising. "Let's go home, Alfred."

"Yes, sir," Alfred rose, leaving the paper behind while he fetched his keys and driving gloves.


	3. Gotham's White Knight

Mayor Hill made the formal introductions.

"Lieutenant James Gordon, this is Harvey Dent, an assistant district attorney on loan to us from Gotham County. He'll be acting as special prosecutor for the men involved in the incident last month."

Hill had a politician's gift for understatement. A few hundred people in the Narrows were dead, thousands displaced by fires, many still crazed and awaiting treatment, and the ranks of riot cops in Gotham were still half empty thanks to the casualties. Some 'incident.'

Dent released his hand, polite smile in place. "The mayor tells me you were instrumental in containing the chaos last month. I orchestrated this little detour on my tour of your precinct. I wanted to get a chance to shake your hand, Lieutenant."

This Dent guy knew how to shmooze, Gordon would give him that. But if Dent thought he _liked_ being popular and being on TV, he had a few stacks of unanswered pink sticky-notes from Summer Gleason to show the new guy.

"Just doing my job," Gordon opted for diplomacy rather than sarcasm.

"As will I," Dent struck a pose, but his expression was sincere. "We've got a lot of work to do, and I'll be depending upon your help. You've got a reputation as an honest man, Lieutenant Gordon. I value that."

He looked to Commissioner Loeb to place that remark. "I was just updating them on the I.A.B. investigation. You got excellent marks, Gordon. I.A.B. _hates_ giving good marks." If Loeb sounded bitter, he had a right. The past few weeks had seen the exact enumeration of the ranks of the corrupt cops that had prospered under his watch.

"Yes, sir, thank you."

"I'm proud of our police force." The mayor lifted his chin to show just how proud he was. "I know we've got a few bad apples, but they're finding out that their tenure has come to an end."

Gordon kept his face blank. He might dog Loeb here and there, but he wasn't about to embarrass the man in front of his boss. The Internal Affairs Bureau's purge was more a grand fairy tale for the press than a sweeping reform under the banner of justice; Commissioner Loeb clearly hadn't been keeping the mayor too closely informed on the proceedings. Half of I.A. was on the take, just like the rest of the boys in blue, only the I.A. guys thought they could save themselves by ousting fellow scumbags to keep their own jobs.

"I'll leave you three to get acquainted. You'll have much to do in the coming months if I'm re-elected," Hill plugged, excusing himself, "so let's get started on the right foot, hmm?" The mayor cast a pointed look at Dent, and Gordon shared a questioning one with the commissioner. What was _that_ about? Loeb shook his head once--_later_.

Hill rejoined the staffers he'd left anxious and alone out in the hall. Gordon took his chair again, and the commissioner sat across from him. Dent remained on his feet, pacing, and Gordon's initial impression of shark grew even stronger. Dent was a predator, and the man was circling him.

Abruptly, Dent spoke. "I think I can guess what you're thinking, Gordon." He held his tongue, and Dent went on. "You're not convinced the threat is gone, are you?"

"Threat, Mr. Dent?"

"Dirty cops. Right now, they're scared straight because of what happened to Carmine Falcone and because of this bat-character in the tabloids. But they're still on the squad."

The commissioner was curiously silent, not jumping to defend his force. The past few weeks had been an unpleasant eye-opener for him, and he wasn't about to deny Dent's accusation. Gordon, as a matter of principle, kept his thoughts to himself.

Dent was keen, however. "You don't have to say anything, Lieutenant. I know the commissioner won't have told the mayor everything." Loeb glared at the attorney's back, but Dent pressed onwards, swept up by his own enthusiasm. "The stink goes so far up the ladder that the I.A. boys are probably just wringing the necks of fellow crooks."

Dent paused to check him for any sign he agreed, but he kept himself neutral. Years of pretending not to see had taught him how not to react.

"You won't give up any names. That's admirable, if stupid, Lieutenant. I intend to do my own research on the members of this force with whom I'll be working--_especially _those in a position to police other cops."

"I suppose I'm included in that number?" Loeb grunted.

Dent glanced over his shoulder at the commissioner. "My apologies, Commissioner. I know this isn't easy for you." The lawyer perched on the corner of Gordon's desk, his posture casual, his tone intent. "But now that I'm in town, mob rule is history."

"I thought you were here for the terrorist case," Gordon ventured, probing. There was something in Dent's tone, a possessed quality to his excitement that betrayed more under the surface; he had some stake in this, political or personal or both.

"I am," Dent said, slowly, stretching the short syllables, "but things change. I might be around for a while longer if Gotham City likes what I do with the bastards who took down the Narrows. I'm not convinced there isn't a connection to some of the bosses here in the city." Dent screwed up his face in disgust. "I don't like the mob, boys."

"Glad to hear it, counselor," Loeb chimed in. "Neither do we."

"Good," Dent swivelled his head around sharply to make eye contact with Commissioner Loeb for the first time since they'd entered Gordon's office. "Because I won't tolerate losing cases to them because of corrupt cops."

Loeb opened his mouth to form a retort, choked it off, and glanced away. Neither man looked at Gordon for a long minute, in which he drew a pretty clear picture of what wasn't being said in front of him. Obviously, the two had already discussed subject of police corruption--and where to assign the blame for it--at length.

And just like that, Dent turned back to him, all smiles again.

"I'll want your help, of course, detective."

"Mr. Dent--"

" 'Harvey' will do just fine."

He ignored this attempt to engender intimacy. There were fewer than ten men on the force with whom he felt comfortable being on a first-name basis. No way was some lawyer not five minutes in his acquaintance worth adding to that list.

"I'm going to do my job the way it should be done--"

"That's all I ask," Dent cut him off, leaning forward over his desk, voice dropping to a low mutter. "Keep this on the down-low: you're going to be captain of the homicide division within a year."

"_What_?" Him? Captain? After more than twenty years of service, and reaching no higher than sergeant, he was suddenly a lieutenant. Now he was destined to be captain less than twelve months later? He jerked his head to the side to see the commissioner around Dent. "Sir, what's this?"

Dent got in the way before Loeb could answer. "You're a good cop, Gordon. I don't bullshit around with good people. This department is going to need good cops, and we need the good cops we have to recruit more. When you make captain, you'll bring up more good cops with you."

"I would do that anyway. I don't have to wait until I'm captain to do it."

"That's the spirit," Dent beamed his great white smile.

"I meant that I don't need a bogus promotion to do my job," Gordon replied quickly, catching Loeb's suspicious glower from the corner of his eye. The last thing he needed to do was annoy the commissioner any further; he had to work with Loeb, and the man was still smarting from his _last_ promotion as if it had been a personal insult.

"It's not bogus," Dent banged his fist on the desk. "You _deserve_ it, detective. There's no one better qualified. You've been middling about in this department for too long. You're the kind man I'll want behind me when I'm D.A."

"D.A.?" Gordon felt like burying his face in his hands and muttering the sorts of profanities his wife would never allow in the house. "This is all a bit premature, isn't it, counselor?

"I agree," Loeb contributed, a rare point of concurrence between them.

"Not at all. The mayor's not here, so I can tell you straight out: I'll be D.A. in the next six months if Hill's re-elected. Hell, I could probably talk the job out of Fugate, if needs be."

"What about Miss Dawes?" Gordon felt a tad defensive of the acting district attorney. She might not have Dent's oily, bullish charm, but she had a set of brass stones on her. Moreover, he trusted her, which, despite their short interaction, was more than he could say for Dent thus far. He had looked forward to working with her again in a less stressful and more official capacity.

Dent appeared pained. "Miss Dawes is a great attorney, don't get me wrong. Out in the 'burbs, I admired what she and D.A. Finch did by bringing in Falcone." Dent shook his head, genuinely apologetic. "But she doesn't have the name recognition to stay as D.A. and won't have it after I take those terrorists to trial. My case will have national coverage, and I _will_ get convictions. After I do, it won't be a competition. I'll run for D.A., and I'll get it."

"And when you're established, you're promoting Gordon to captain?" Loeb leaned his against one propped arm. "You sure you want to go throwing your weight about that way, Dent? You know what they say about power corrupting."

"Not me," Dent growled. "I've kept organized crime out of Gotham County for ten years now. I'm just taking on bigger fish in a bigger pond, not bestowing favors, Commissioner. I'm rectifying past wrongs."

"How? By messing with our department?"

"I'm not messing with it," Dent snapped, crossing his arms with an air of finality and turning back to Gordon. At least one of them remembered he was in the room. "Captain Lewis is getting old anyway."

Gordon almost gagged. "I'm forty-eight. Captain Lewis is only sixty," not to mention well below the mandatory retirement age of seventy-five.

"He's being retired," Dent elaborated, and comprehension socked Gordon hard in the gut. _Captain Lewis_? He had no idea it went _that_ far. That burned.

Dent lowered his voice to a murmur. "This is all hush-hush, you understand. Gotham needs to trust its police force. We're retiring some cops and exposing others. That's the way to show that we're tough without losing too much face."

Gordon leaned back in his chair, mind reeling, mood sinking. "And who decides who gets an early going away party and who gets skunked?"

Dent waved off his hostility. "That's the commissioner's job. He'll talk to the ones who've been here longest, convince them to retire. Your partner is included in that number." This failed to surprise his audience, so Dent continued, "We're cleaning house. We'll start with the rookies and get rid of any who look shaky, threaten prosecution if necessary."

"Why not just suspend them?"

"It looks _weak_." Dent sniffed, sporting an affronted and angry sneer.

"Some guys just need a second chance."

"Not with _me_. I have the mayor's full support on this. The commissioner, too." He confirmed this with a begrudging nod from Loeb. "No dirty cops get second chances in Gotham. Not any more." Dent straightened, shifting his jacket so it sat rigidly perfect on his wide shoulders once more. "Thought you ought to know what's coming."

Right then, Gordon realized two things. One: Dent wanted to intimidate him. A suburban attorney new to Gotham City, he meant to make himself a reputation from the outset to save him the trouble of having to salvage one later. So, he brought out the merciless, pitiless tough act. Gordon had met tough--_real_ tough. It didn't have to pretend, even if it did wear a mask.

Two: Dent had been trying purposefully to provoke him. The cop in Gordon understood the principle--baiting a suspect to draw out an incriminating word or deed. Dent was feeling him out, matching Gordon's reputation against his behavior. And now he knew, and Dent knew that he knew.

"This a test to see if I tell anyone what you're doing."

"Maybe," Dent grinned slyly. "I need to know who's on my team and who isn't, Gordon."

"I know what team I'm on." Gordon sank deeper into his chair, huffing. "How about I wait and see whether yours and mine are the same?"

"That's fine, Lieutenant. I think we understand each other." Dent slid off his desk, going to the door and opening it. "Commissioner, could you give us a couple of minutes, please?"

An aggrieved Commissioner Loeb rose and departed with no more than a grunt. Dent closed the door after him, his self-possessed assurance faltering as he economically selected choice words for maximum impact, a lawyering trick if ever there was one.

"Commissioner Loeb's turning a blind eye to your nightly activities, Gordon."

"Is that right," he didn't ask; already the double-talk tasted sour in his mouth. He was getting damned tired of Loeb and Mayor Hill politicking around the issue of the Batman. It left him holding the bag, and the press hadn't yet allowed him to forget it. He had no interest in getting more of the same from Harvey Dent.

"Whatever your arrangement with this bat-character, that's your business. I don't need to know. Just keep him in line so he doesn't foul up my cases, okay?"

"I'm not his keeper."

"Maybe not," Dent shrugged. "But he trusts you. Don't bother denying it. Use what leverage you have with him to get him to play ball with us."

Gordon opened his mouth to voice his exasperation--he had _no_ control over Batman, why didn't people get that?--and the phone rang instead; Dent crossed the room in two steps to pick it up before Gordon even processed that he ought to be the one answering.

"Gordon's office." He watched Dent raise one eyebrow as he listened to the person on the other end. "No, he's unavailable at the moment."

Gordon mouthed 'who is it?' Dent ignored him, intent upon this call.

"This is Harvey Dent...yes, _that_ Harvey Dent. Miss Gleason, was it?"

Gordon groaned. That woman never gave up. He detached her stack of post-its and handed them to Dent; the attorney leafed through them, amusement and irritation chasing across his features. He tipped the phone away, covering the receiver.

"How many times has she called about Batman?"

"Too many," Gordon grumbled, lifting his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose against a headache. Gleason called, and he got a migraine. He didn't exactly look fondly back on the all-too-recent bad old days, but he really, really hated being so popular.

Dent brought the receiver back to his mouth. "Miss Gleason, as of right now, Detective Gordon's number is off limits. If you want an official statement on this Batman person, you can contact me at the district attorney's office. Do not call back here." Dent dropped the phone back down on the cradle.

Awed, Gordon gaped at the other man. Why hadn't he thought of that?

"Will that work?" He didn't dare hope. Tragedy and promotion conspired to leave him buried in paperwork until his fiftieth birthday; if Dent lightened that load by a half-dozen post-its per day, he would be Gordon's new best friend.

"Who knows?" Dent waved as he headed for the door. "If not, I could always ask the mayor to revoke her press pass. That ought to keep her in line."

"Can he afford that?" There were only two weeks left until the election, after all.

"It won't do much for his image," Dent conceded, enigmatic grin firmly in place, "but her network won't suffer for it. It'll be a strictly personal insult that her colleagues can hold against her forever--and they _will_. Reporters can be sharks."

"They're not the only ones," Gordon wondered aloud, finding himself suddenly liking Dent a whole lot better when he had the good grace to laugh.

"I believe I resemble that remark, Lieutenant."

"Jim."

"Jim," Dent dipped his head, accepting the peace offering and opening the door.

"You get her off my back, you'll be my personal hero."

Dent stopped, turned in the doorway and nodded to him.

"Consider it done."


	4. Dinner for Two or Three or Four?

"Good evening, Miss Dawes," Alfred greeted her with a tip of his hat as she pecked him on the cheek.

"Hello, Alfred," she gave his arm a squeeze and let him take her briefcase.

"Goodness, what are you keeping in here?" He grunted as he hefted it.

"Mostly bricks."

"I wouldn't have wondered if you did," he put a friendly hand on her back, guiding her into the open door.

Bruce was reclined against the far wall of the back seat, managing to look dressed down and casual despite wearing a suit that screamed both good taste and high price. His relaxed posture placed his face perfectly between the auras emanating from the street lamps just outside. At first, all she could see were dim reflections in the whites of his eyes.

"Hello, stranger," she said, softly, not entirely sure it was untrue. She jumped, startled, when Alfred shut her door, and a smile wrested the grim seriousness off Bruce's lips.

"Hello, yourself," his tone was all ease and friendliness, and she knew at once that something was up. She scanned him once over, gaze falling to where a manila folder lay on his lap. It was possible it contained nothing more than stock figures, updates regarding Wayne Enterprises' construction plans, or maybe even blueprints for the Manor.

She doubted, however, that the contents would prove to be so mundane. If it were business, he would have tucked it away, passed it to Alfred, shoved it aside. If he'd left it out, he'd done so on purpose, to send a message.

"What's this?" She jerked her chin at the folder.

"I wanted to know why you were being fired, and now I do." He paused, leaving her room to comment, and when she held her tongue, he said, "Harvey Dent."

She sighed. "So, you know all about it." It made things simpler, she supposed, though it took all the fun out of telling him. Of course, he _would_ have it all figured out before she got the chance...

"No," he shook his head. "I know what the public record says. I have articles, I have pictures, and I even have his resume." When she raised a skeptical eyebrow, he elaborated, "I'm close to Mayor Hill. Apparently, I like what he's done with Gotham's schools."

She snorted at this, catching Alfred's twinkling blue eyes in the rear-view mirror. Bruce would no more have noticed Gotham public schools improving than he would them exploding. Not that he wasn't observant, but a private-school brat like him just wouldn't have the experience. It took someone with a little more worldly a view--say a member of the servile class--to appreciate such differences. Alfred would have to work a little harder on his contributions to Bruce's playboy alibi.

"What I don't have are two things."

"Okay, I'll bite. What's one?"

"Why is Harvey Dent bad for Gotham City?"

She pursed her lips, managing not to contain her vitriol through sheer will alone. "And two?"

"Why is he getting your job?"

She let out the breath she'd been holding. Damn, but he was good. Bad grades and misbehavior in school notwithstanding, Bruce was an excellent student and he_ always_ did his homework.

"All right," she took a minute to collect her thoughts, thinking how best to boil down her tantrum as effectively as he had concentrated his need-to-knows. "One: Harvey Dent isn't necessarily bad for Gotham City."

"Explain."

She bristled at this commanding tone, trying to pass off the shudder along her spine as indignant rather than chilled; his voice had dropped a register, become a growl--Bruce Wayne's environment only partially contained the Batman.

"Mayor Hill wants someone tough on crime who's also not in anybody's pocket for the trial coming up. Dent's his man. He's got a flawless record against the mafia, and he's an effective attorney."

"But," Bruce started for her, waving to indicate that she should finish.

"No buts about it, really." She shrugged. "When it comes to the law, Harvey Dent is unassailable. He gets tough sentences from judges more inclined towards leniency than the crooked ones. Hill wants a tough attorney because the terrorists' trial will get national coverage. And he _definitely_ wants a winner. Harvey Dent is a winner, Bruce."

He remained undeterred, his expression sharpening. "You said 'when it comes to the law.'" He didn't need to ask; his tone suggested well enough on its own that her political theorizing had not distracted him.

"Yes. Harvey's got a way with the law. It's people he's not so good with."

"Define 'not so good with people.'"

"Oh," she chuckled, once, "right." _Look who you're talking to. _She coughed graciously once. "An old classmate of mine works as a public defender in Gotham County. He filled me in on some of Harvey's trouble spots."

"Trouble spots," Bruce repeated, dryly, tapping his index finger alongside his temple.

"Two years ago, Harvey Dent slugged an opposing attorney in a bar."

"Were there extenuating circumstances?" Bruce frowned at the file still balanced on his knee. "I didn't hear about this."

"It got lost in the election hoopla. His opponent was unpopular, and when he tried to make something of the incident, people thought it was mudslinging."

"And, I'm guessing, they were inclined to agree with punching out lawyers." His smirk irritated her, and she knew she ought not to let him bait her, but she couldn't let it slide.

"Bruce, Harvey put him in the hospital with a broken nose and bruised ribs." She watched this sink in, fascinated and desperate to ask a hundred questions he would never answer when he unconsciously touched his side. She could take for granted that he had a rough idea of what that felt like.

"That's excessive," he said, generously. "Unless the man threatened him first in some way?" He was probing, not antagonistic.

"My friend says no. Harvey flipped out because one of the public defenders got some DNA evidence thrown out on a case. If Dent'd tried to do that to a private attorney, he'd have been sued into poverty."

"Instead, the district hushed it up," Bruce finished for her, nodding with some finality. Matter number one: resolved. She avoided eye contact as the wheels and cogs of conversation moved to the heart of the matter, the reason for this evening's decadence.

She was saved by Alfred.

"Here we are, sir," Alfred called cheerily from the front as he stepped out to open Bruce's door. She stayed rooted to her seat, blinking stupidly at the restaurant's rich cerulean awning with expansive gold lettering that spelled out a word that she could read but not process. Bruce came around to open her door, and by then she'd recovered enough to scowl mightily at him.

"_Dorsia_? You got reservations _here_?" She felt like stamping her feet and throwing a righteous fit when he grinned. Smug bastard. She smoothed her skirt a few times then gave up; a leggy model strode by them with a fuck-me walk that left all the valets salivating, Bruce not-onerously pretending to join them until she swatted him. "I told you _moderately_ expensive."

"This is moderate," he protested, exaggerated pout trembling as he smothered laughter.

"Moderate for the filthy _rich_."

"Yeah, I can see your point. They might not like my kind in there," he trumped her cheerfully, public and plastic smile firmly in place as he extended his arm to her. After a beat, she took it, unsure of how close to stand next to him, gratified to see he kept his distance; such awkward moments of aborted intimacy were probably part and parcel of why he'd avoided her of late. It was empowering, knowing that he routinely beat up armed criminals and yet looked nervous as hell offering her his arm.

Beaming at him, she hissed through her teeth, "I hate you."

"How could you? I'm Bruce Wayne. Everybody loves me."

"Commissioner Loeb might disagree." She giggled at his feigned expression of exaggerated shock, denying him a chance to take revenge. "Nope, we're not doing that tonight."

"That's right. Tonight's about _you_."

She cursed herself, then cast him a pitiful glance. "I walked right into that one, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did." He looked past her for a second, focusing on someone behind her, then finding her eyes in a hurry. "Do you know that girl from channel twelve?"

"Summer Glllohhhh _fuck_," she muttered, turning to find the redheaded reporter strolling up to them with an affected hip swagger. Bruce's inane grin was in place already as she struggled to appear pleased to see Gleason.

"Why _hello_, D.A. Dawes!" The full wattage of Summer Gleason's personality bore down on her for a mercifully short instant before the intrepid journalist recognized the man standing with her. "And Bruce Wayne!" Gleason stuck out her hand, pumping the timidly proffered one Bruce held out. "It's so nice to meet you in person! I'm Summer Gleason!"

Rachel understood, with a pang of regret, why Kyle Finch had always hated reporters. They had a way of making every sentence sound like a rallying cry for bipolar people stuck on 'manic.' Bruce held his own, smile dimming and anxiety creeping into his wary posture.

"I recognize you from television. I like your hair."

Which Gleason then proceeded to toss about for his benefit; Rachel almost put her heel through Bruce's toe.

"Are you out for an evening, Mr. Wayne?" Her eyes flicked to Rachel and went right back to Bruce. "Getting awfully cozy with the politicos so soon after your return from abroad, I see."

"Rachel's an-an old friend," Bruce stuttered--_stuttered_! She wanted to die of shock or burst into hysterical giggles. She settled for gritting her teeth.

"You know," Gleason took a step towards him, invading his personal space. "You really ought to sit down and do an interview with me some time. All of Gotham would love to hear about what you got up to across the pond for seven years."

The. Woman. Was. Batting. Her. Eyelashes.

"I'll have to talk to my secretary _and_ my lawyer about that," Bruce returned, timidity gone as he fell back on arrogance. He took a step back, withdrawing his hand with a fatuous, self-important sneer. "I'm a busy man, Miss Gleason."

"So's your friend," Gleason said, and Bruce's interrogation was over; hers was only beginning. Delicately made up green eyes cleared out the misty, girly-girl frost that had fallen over them, hardening when turned on her. "I hear you're going to be quite busy, Miss Dawes, getting ready for Harvey Dent's takeover."

"It's a partnership, Miss Gleason, not a takeover." Gleason rolled her eyes, but Rachel squashed her flare up of temper. "A man of Mr. Dent's integrity is sorely needed in Gotham City. I look forward to working with him." She'd have to remember that sound bite for future interviews.

"But not for long," Gleason shot back.

"I'm sorry?" Rachel could feel Bruce scrutinizing her even as he kept up a confused expression for Gleason's benefit.

"My sources tell me you're bucking for a transfer to the public defender's office."

"No comment, Miss Gleason." Bruce was boring holes through her head with his stare and yawning at the same time.

"Does this change reflect a shift of the D.A.'s office policy regarding the Batman?" Gleason's use of the reporterly plural tipped her off: this, not Rachel's impending career move, was what the reporter had been after from the outset.

"Our office isn't making a statement about the Batman at this time, Miss Gleason." And she _certainly_ wasn't going to do so in front of Bruce, even if she had figured out her personal position.

"That's all right," Gleason waved her off, "I have an appointment with Harvey Dent tomorrow. I'm sure he'll want to go on the record regarding the Batman. He might need to have a statement handy for the future," Gleason said, coyly.

"Mr. Dent is in town to prosecute terrorists suspected of being involved in the destruction of the Narrows a month ago. I think he'll be focusing his energies there."

"And then returning to the suburbs?"

"No comment."

"Rrrright," Gleason rolled the 'r' and her eyes. A business card snapped up between her fingers, but she offered it to Bruce. "Call my office if you change your mind about that interview, Mr. Wayne."

"I'm sure I will," Bruce said shortly, tucking Gleason's card deep into his suit jacket.

"You better hurry, Mr. Wayne. There are two men I'm looking to pin down for interviews. Batman might just take your spot. Miss Dawes, always a pleasure." Gleason extracted herself with a slight bow of her head to both of them and strode off triumphant.

Bruce's forearm tightened under her hand, shaking her free of the whirlwind of confusion Summer Gleason left in her wake.

"You're _leaving_ the D.A.'s office?" His lips barely moved when he spoke. "You're going to the public defender's office?" She nodded, not meeting his eyes. "Rachel..."

He sounded hurt, even betrayed, and what right did he have to feel that way after what he'd put her through in the past decade? Anger strengthened her, and she glared up at him, defiant and almost equal to his smoldering intensity.

"I know how you feel about it, Bruce," she said, voice low so as not to be overheard by the idle rich strolling past them into the restaurant. "Not everyone who goes to court is guilty. I'm not going to be working against you, I mean that." He said nothing, allowing her to justify herself. He owed her that much.

"Dent's a bad sign for all of us, Bruce. Hill and he will go one-hundred-and-eighty degrees in the opposite direction trying to smother crime in this town. It can't be done that way. It takes time, patience, and compassion, something politicians like Hill and hot-shots like Dent don't understand and can't afford. They'll want results immediately and they'll step all over innocent people to make it look like they're making progress. That's not justice."

His brow smoothed, and his sullen frown lifted. "No," he admitted at last, "it's not."

"Dent's been known to smother opposing attorneys in and out of court. If he gets his hands on Gotham after what's happened? Heaven help us all," Rachel muttered, uncharacteristically despondent. It moved him, the weariness in her voice and he rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb, smiling reassuringly at her.

"You won't let it get that far."

"Damn straight," she snapped, one corner of her mouth ticking up as she poked him squarely in the chest. "And don't think I won't count on your help."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Mmm-hmm," she grunted, shaking her head; he was incorrigible.

They entered the restaurant, Bruce nodding to the maitre'd, who leapt at the chance to show them to a table without asking for their reservation. Everyone might not love him, but no one needed to be told who he was. An expensive white zinfandel waited on ice. He pulled out her chair, smirking at the dirty look she threw him at this casual, effete display of chivalry, and seated himself in the chair across from her.

She pursed her lips as their host poured them each a glass of wine and set the bottle back into the ice bucket. Rachel lifted her glass, sniffing it and testing the color introspectively. "I don't want to know how much that bottle costs, do I?"

"It costs a moderate amount of money."

Their waiter rhapsodized about the house specials, and she ordered the duck. Bruce opted for the same, waving the man off when he ventured to describe the various types of salad they were entitled to as a result of their entree.

"Just bring me something green."

"Very good, sir." The man bustled away, rubbing his hands; diffident and difficult customer that Bruce might be, he could afford to tip well.

"I didn't know you liked duck."

"It's all the same," Bruce shrugged. "Meat, vegetables, sauce."

"You used to be such a picky eater." Her mother was best friends with the Waynes' old cook, a bellicose Italian woman who used to cry herself into fits over little Bruce's impossible-to-please palate. When the cook chanced upon them stealing a midnight snack one night, she discovered the one meal he'd eat--peanut butter and celery with sardines on toasted wheat bread--she'd made it for his lunch for a month straight.

"I've been re-educated." He waved off the forecoming tide of inquiry, raising his glass to her. "To Gotham's best public defender."

Rachel smiled weakly, clinking her glass to his. "You're really okay with this?"

He sighed into his glass, the huffing sound making her ache and feel tired all over. "Not quite. Dent's taking your job, and you're giving up the position you've wanted since before I can remember. You're not _fighting_ for it, which I don't understand at all. But it's your life." _And you won't let me change your mind_, he didn't say aloud.

She stuck out her chin. "I _am_ fighting. Anyone can put away the criminals now that we have Batman's help getting them in the first place. I'm going to fight to make sure that criminals are the only ones who run afoul of the system."

"Checks and balances against corruption," he nudged her.

"Absolutely. Justice without compassion _is_ corruption."

"On that, at least, we can agree."


End file.
